Seven Deadly Sins
by Lin West
Summary: Georik Zaberisk has many face, but which is his true skin? Animamundi: The Dark Alchemist fanfiction. Slash.
1. i

The Seven Deadly Sins

_Gluttony_

By: Lin West

* * *

i.

Papers of important descriptions, calculations for formulas, and solution ratios critical for his creation of the prima material were cast aside, littered the floor, crunched underneath his feet, and made into a coaster for his bottle. His hair, also carelessly sprawled across the desk, was only distinguishable from the basement's deep shadows by the glow of candles upon it. Far below the Zaberisk mansion in the private of the black abyss that engulfed the room, Georik cried. An act he had forbidden himself. To cry meant falling victim to unreliable emotions. It meant collapse, to have no other methods with which to answer a question. It meant submission. However, such was the position Georik had found himself in. Georik Zaberisk was well versed in many art forms. The art of drowning oneself in drink was not one of them, rather Georik believed smothering away your problems was foolish and idiotic -- coherency was the best method of producing a remedy for a problem, intoxication was only an escape from troubles.

But he needed an escape, God, did he need to forget how his laboratory smelled of death and decay that no amount of incense could cover. Blood had stained the stone ground and seeped into the dirt, and there was no end in sight to how many more precious lives would be sacrificed. Georik swirled his third cup of vodka in hand. What had he allowed himself to become? Georik's hands were stained with the blood of over five hundred men, women, and children. How many more would be lead to death through his hands?

Caressing words slithered from the darkness and resonating through all of Georik's being. "Me thinkst, thou hast drunk more than suffice, Master." A faint tap of heels against stone as Mephistophiles approached the physician. The sole light from the candles illuminated the devil's form as he seemed to materialize from the darkness of the room itself next to Georik.

Refusing to look at the speaker, Georik rasped with malicious edge in his voice, "I have no patience for your games. Be gone."

Hands with black nails that resembled that of claws, one by one clasped Georik's shoulder. "I come not to mock. My heart cannot bear to hear thou suffer."

It started as a chuckle that grew into a resounding bitter laugh that echoed across the four walls of the room. Georik clawed his fingers through his own hair, his grip threatened to pull them from their roots. "Sweet words, my good Devil, are best saved for maidens and kings. Which do you take me for, a maiden or king?"

Mephistophiles brow furrowed, then smoothed as he fell to his knees and took Georik's gloved hand into his own. "Without doubt, a king, my Master"

"A king of rot and decay."

"Nay. A king of wisdom, compassion, and beauty." His lips pressed against Georik's knuckles.

Georik pulled his hand from Mephistophiles disapprovingly, and with it he sought the clear glass bottle again. He poured the liquid that resembled water only in appearance into his glass. Georik's normally steady hands trembled as he set the bottle to rest against the worn wood of the tabletop with an unceremonious thud. "If you, of all people, sincerely attest to such things, then I know them to be falsehoods." Georik once again laid his head against the table, and he did not raise it again. His strained expression melted into calm and a steady breathing parted from his lips.

A strained sigh from Mephistophiles, "Master..." The devil watched the man rest, as if debating what to do with his captive. Resolute, Mephistophiles held Georik and effortlessly pulled the man from his chair and brought him into his arms. Pressing his face to his, Mephistophiles kissed his brow, the scar on his cheek, jawbone, and finally with chaste tenderness, his lips.

He carried him up the basement stairs, across the hallways of the manor, and to the topmost room that was Georik's chambers. He laid his master carefully down onto the sheets. He removed both of Georik's boots and relieved him of his suit and gloves, leaving him comfortably in only a loosely fitting white shirt and slacks. Mephistophiles again pressed his lips to Georik and tangled his fingers in his soft tresses of midnight, this time his lips did not abandon the other's so quickly. The Devil kissed him as if he drunk on Georik's soul. As he parted he stared at Georik's sleeping form longingly. A soft whisper that fell on sleeping ears, "Evil men do not mourn their nature, Georik."


	2. ii

The Seven Deadly Sins

_Sloth_

By: Lin West

* * *

ii.

Morning came. Georik awoke to a throbbing head and irritability at nothing in particular. He scarcely remembered an earlier exchange involving the devil and nothing of its transgressions; however the guilt and self-contempt that had seduced him to his drunken stupor was not so easily eradicated.

Just as quickly as the dawn triumphed, the pervading black hushed the illumination to mere pinpricks. Only then did Georik find the will to resign himself from his haze of dizziness and semi-lucid thoughts to rise from bed. He consumed sustenance, ignored futile prodding of his servant, and silently shared lifeblood with Lillith. All the while Georik knew he should be working, doing something productive since time was not on his side, however, he also knew well he was not in the mindset to attempt any sort of research or experimentations.

Leaving his manor for the company of the streets and appearing no different from a shadow himself, Georik slipped through alleyways, across deserted plazas, and combed through the cobwebs of buildings. With his feet following the scent of some unknown hunger, his thoughts were liberated from obscurity and returned to him at full force:

Had he not said it to Timothy himself, _everything has a time and place to die_. For what ends does he continue this bloodbath. For whom does he continue this. Is it really Lillith's sake or so his own selfish desire to embrace her, dance with her amongst the roses, debate over jam and bread, to see her wear a wedding ring. Is it not he who in reality forces her to deny the grave, and in such defiance of the nature, succumb to perversions; an existence seeped in blood and debt. The shadows of the night sweep through and stain Georik's features.

But how could he not do such things when these freedoms lay in plain sight? Could he deny his sole blood-ties what reapings only he could grant her? No, for his beautiful, sweet Lillith he could deny nothing. Georik knew he could unravel the World's Tapestry to its very Threads for her; it now was in the hands of the clock to whether these ultimate acts of selfishness will achieve the blessing of a maiden's joy.

"Count Zaberisk," a caresses of an accented voice. "You have a dangerous look about you."

His feet froze as he turned to the speaker. "Much weights my thoughts of the late."

Every time this spectra of a man's path crossed his own, the tragedy crystallized in Ruthberg's pensive eyes lured Georik to venture a second, side-long glance. Regardless of what tragic beauty the boy held mastery over, Georik was in no mood for the trivialities of conversation. With a tip of his hat, "excuse me."

"Won't you accompany me?" A desperation hidden between his words held Georik's boots in place.

The words slipped off his tongue without his permission, "I can't be long."

The walk to the Golden Goose was but a few silent minutes. It had been awhile since Georik's last visit, yet the curious shop still remained as he remembered it: exotic plants, beautiful ornamentations in woodwork more occult in nature than decorative flourishes, books penned in crooked, foreign scripts arranged to some system known only to Ruthberg, and of course the lingering smell of an intoxicating sweetness. "Of the late not many customers seek my services. I suppose you must've noticed it yourself, but there remain fewer and fewer followers of Hermes left."

"Is that worry I hear?"

"Perhaps." A well practiced smile laced with a hint of flirtation, that Georik knew came to medium out of habit not interest, held the aristocrat despite himself.

Ruthberg's sight darted to the left as he spoke, "I know you're a physician, might I impose your skills?"

The vulnerability in the youth's voice surprised Georik. "So this was your true aim in calling me out, eh?" Georik carefully placed smile sought to ease Ruthberg's obvious discomfort of the subject. "What ails you?"

A hesitant pause and then Ruthberg seemed resolute as he spoke, "It'd be best to simply show you." Shaking his hair free from his hood, he delicately placed the assemble on the floor next to him, following it he slide down the front of his robe revealing marless, milky skin as soft as a woman's; clearly he never saw a day of labor. For all his skin's virtue, however, a horribly purple, green blotch devoured his arm. "I received this awhile ago and I had expected it to heal cleanly... but."

Seizing a delicate wrist, Georik examined the wound with knitting eyebrows. "I know you are familiar with medicines, didn't you clean and bandage the wound?"

The close proximity of the other bade Ruthberg eyes from Georik's once again, and his voice brimmed embarrassment. "Of course I did, but it became infected all the same."

Georik was wise not to press why Ruthberg had not sought the aid of his Master; Georik felt he already knew the reason why. Pressing his free hand to the youth's temple, Georik noted no fever besides the heat that rushed to Ruthberg's cheeks as he leaned in close. "You're not feverish at least, but this will need cleaning and medicine. One moment."

Satisfied to find Ruthberg's warehouse of banned goods supplied the required herbs, Georik removed his gloves and grinded the leaves and roots to an earthy smelling cream. All the while Ruthberg silently observed, no doubt committing to memory what Georik's used. His gaze only waned when Georik returned to him with a washcloth and bowl of water. Ruthberg carefully presented his arm to Georik's steady hand, which cleaned the wound in practiced, gentle movements. "You need to see to yourself better," Georik absent-mindly murmured.

"Will it heal properly?"

"Given time, yes." Smearing his fingers with the cream and once satisfied at the even distribution of the medicine he adorned the skin with linen wrappings. Finally, Georik produced a small capped vial of white pills from a hidden pocket, "Take this once a day. It will help it heal."

"I am in your debt, Doctor."

"It was no trouble, but as for the payment," a firm hold on the boy's good arm and a gentle press of lips that indulge no more than a few seconds. "Consider it collected."

"Georik, you..." He stared at the physician for several moments as if waiting for something. When he was met with only silence, Ruthberg covered his mouth in a disbelieving wonder. "But how could anyone…?"

Both amused by Ruthberg's ineloquence and slightly ashamed of his own fleeting whims getting the better of his judgment, Georik murmured, "I apologize, it seems I've made fools of us both. I'll take my leave."

Having only known lips of the damned and the living dead, Ruthberg sighed. A caress of hot breath that would breathe a thousand more, unaffiliated by his poison, even if it were a stolen selfish press of lips left him blessedly warm, despite the night's chill Georik let in as he left.

A pink burst of morning chipped away the black coal of twilight.


End file.
